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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29083101">lighter now (with soft spoken dawn)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayLittleEarring/pseuds/GayLittleEarring'>GayLittleEarring</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Vampire, IDK is there anything else... im so garbage at tagging fics, M/M, bitches will say they hate writing then knock out 20k in 3 weeks (im bitches), colleagues to friends to idiots to lovers, doctor joe, historical accuracy: LMAO, references to booker's family and death of his children</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:06:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,130</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29083101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayLittleEarring/pseuds/GayLittleEarring</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It has only yet gone eight p.m. when Nicolò di Genova, second son of Gauvain of France, opens the door of the Family house to allow Dr. Yusuf al-Kaysani entrance. The doctor has to shake the snow off his hat before turning to face what will, with hope, become a primary source for his new research into the medical practices one can apply to the undead—colloquially known as vampires. </p>
<p>It has only yet gone eight p.m. when Nicolò di Genova first lays eyes upon the most beautiful man he has ever seen.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>272</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>lighter now (with soft spoken dawn)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>WITH GREAT THANKS TO: shan, for giving me permanent brainworms &lt;3 av, for discussing the logistics of vampire chest bites and also bendy straws with me &lt;3 myself, for having a weird grudge against vampire erotica in which the vampire doesn't have blood in his system (because how pray tell is he gonna get hard) and an unquenchable need to be right, leading to this fic.</p>
<p>on a serious note: this fic talks about booker's (dead) family and there is a scene in which a child gets hurt, it's pretty vague because i myself can't handle thinking about that kind of thing but just as a heads up, its there.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It has only yet gone eight p.m. when Nicolò di Genova, second son of Gauvain of France, opens the door of the Family house to allow Dr. Yusuf al-Kaysani entrance. The sun has set hours past, winter weather allowing Nicolò to be about his business with a rhythm that suits him quite well. In that it <em>is</em> winter, the doctor has to shake the snow off his hat before turning to face what will, with hope, become a primary source for his new research into the medical practices one can apply to the undead—colloquially known as <em>vampires</em>. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” Dr. al-Kaysani exclaims with a smile. “You must be Mr. di Genova. I had expected a butler.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It has only yet gone eight p.m. when Nicolò di Genova, second son of Gauvain of France, first lays eyes upon the most beautiful man he has ever seen.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” he replies somewhat dumbly. “Or, rather, no. We… find it hard to employ staff.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Realising this is absolutely not what Nicolò expected his first words to the doctor to be, he steps aside with a gesture. “Please,” he says, quite formally. “Be welcome.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò takes the doctor’s coat and hat, hanging them up just so in hopes that they will be warm and dry by the time the doctor would once again take his leave. “It’s warmer in the sitting room,” Nicolò assures the man. For his part, the doctor just laughs easily and waves away any concerns.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please, lead the way.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò takes him through to where the fire is blazing hot and bright, and watches from the corner of his eye as the doctor takes it all in. His hands, elegant and long-fingered, reach out to touch various pieces of the interior decoration or architecture. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How old is this house?” Dr. al-Kaysani asks, a question Nicolò was more than expecting.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò bites back his smile. “Gauvain likes to renovate often. What use is living forever if you cannot enjoy the modern luxuries?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani laughs, a bright, happy thing. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once they are seated, it does not take Nicolò very long to form his opinion on the doctor. Indeed, from the moment he carefully retrieves a journal and pencil from his bag and flips to a new page to take notes, Nicolò is shocked by his directness. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, Mr. di Genova, might I assume from our correspondence that this is not the first medical interview you have participated in?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You may,” Nicolò says, smiling at Dr. al-Kaysani’s light-hearted tone. “I am quite sure that in your medical training you will have read texts on which I or one of my kind have consulted, even if we are not always named. There is much to be learned from ancient beings such as we, in the fields of both history and science.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor nods. “Quite so. And yet, in all those texts I have found very little concern for the immortal being’s well-being. My goal, with your kind help, would be to compile a rudimentary first attempt at a way for doctors to learn about the science and medicine one can apply to vampires. Of course, I do not presume that this will be sufficient information to apply to <em>all</em> vampires everywhere, but every medical research has got to start somewhere.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf al-Kaysani, it seems, is a breath of fresh air. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There have always, <em>will</em> always be those interested in Nicolò’s condition, some in the interest of furthering the research into medicine or history while with others he shares company of an entirely different sort, and Nicolò has spent the years surrounding himself by men from both categories. Even so, never has anyone taken an interest in Nicolò personally.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You seem perplexed.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I… Quite so, quite so,” Nicolò shifts in his seat, leaning forward with a small frown. “Only, I had thought I misunderstood your letters on this matter.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well…” Dr. al-Kaysani spreads his hands as if to say ‘<em>here I am</em>’. “I hope this does not change your willingness to be a part of this research? I do have other sources though none quite like yourself, and I had thought myself quite lucky in finding you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, not at all. I mean, yes, I would like to remain a participant.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good!” Dr. al-Kaysani’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, pleased and almost affectionate. “I suppose in that case we should go over the expectations we have for one another, to avoid any further misunderstandings.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò nods, feeling still somewhat dazed at the revelation that the doctor would care so much about Nicolò’s kind. He settles back into his chair, feeling unmoored at the unexpected turn the evening has taken.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“For me, it would be useful to understand both the culture and supernatural needs and abilities of the vampire,” Dr. al-Kaysani begins, rifling through his notes. “With my other subjects I have already discussed enhanced healing and some theories of how feeding affects the body. Of course, I would love to hear these topics again from your perspective, but mostly what I lack with the others is the aspect of Family.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks up again and catches Nicolò’s gaze. “I would hope this does not offend you, but my other subjects do not have a fixed home or territory.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Traveling vampires?” Nicolò finds himself surprised for the second time that evening. “I have heard, of course, of recently reborn vampires returning once more to their birth family, until they eventually lose control or find their way back to whoever changed them. Naturally I did not do so, but it has been known to happen. Are they very young?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I would not presume to share these details without their knowledge, you understand, but suffice it to say that they are not young at all.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course, I did not mean to pry.” Nicolò considers this. “Well, I’ve never heard of such a thing. But no, it does not offend me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani smiles at him again, relaxing further into the loveseat. “That is very good to hear. Would you mind terribly if we could run through your Family again?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not at all. I did mention them in my letters…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes and I have some of those notes with me, merely a few clarifying questions?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò gestures for the doctor to go ahead.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“As I understand it, Families are groups of vampires who share the same territory, usually headed by a patriarch or matriarch who is responsible for the younger vampire’s rebirth. Hence the terminology used, such as son or daughter, sister or brother. In your case, I believe Gauvain is the patriarch of this Family, and he has two sons and one daughter?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Three sons,” Nicolò corrects, “but only two remain… living, as it were.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani nods and adjusts his notes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And you are…?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The oldest, now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will not ask you for your age, do not worry. One does not make that mistake twice.” He laughs and rubs the back of his neck, awkwardly. “So it is Gauvain, then you, your brother Sébastien and your sister.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It… no, well, it depends on your point of view.” Nicolò searches for his words. “He may be older than either of us in body, but truly Sébastien is the youngest.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor nods. “And your sister, she is…?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Celeste.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” His eyes twinkle. “Your favourite.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s so startlingly frank that Nicolò laughs before he has time to stop himself. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pardon, I…” his lips twist upwards beneath his fingers, softening his tone. “I do not think I ever said that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mr. di Genova, I assure you that you did. Maybe not in those terms but I am a man quite capable of reading between the lines.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, I suppose you must be.” He looks smug, too, and Nicolò can’t help but be charmed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The ice broken, they continue their conversation in a far more relaxed manner. Nicolò sinks deeper into his chair, comfortable to answer the doctor’s questions while taking some time to examine him. Nicolò isn’t quite sure what to make of the doctor, wondering if perhaps there is some underlying yearning for the nobility of being the first to care about vampires. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But, he reasons, if that were the case he may just as well have written the book without asking such questions. It isn’t as if anyone would have cared to disprove him, after all.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And there is a certain quality to him that Nicolò finds hard to place. Dr. al-Kaysani is charismatic, certainly, but it does not come with the overconfidence of other such men Nicolò has had the great displeasure of knowing. Indeed, Nicolò wonders whether the doctor is even aware of his effect on other people.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And he is captivatingly handsome. <em>That</em> anyone could see. Even in stillness he is lovely, a trait much amplified when in his element. Eyes sparkling, hand flying over the pages of his notebook as he compares what Nicolò has to say with what he has heard before. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before long the clock chimes to mark the hour, and Dr. al-Kaysani looks up, surprised at the swiftness with which the evening has progressed. He carefully busies himself with the putting away of his journal, meticulous movements to hide some degree of nervousness. Nicolò cannot picture what this man has to be nervous about, but allows him the comfort of the gesture.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mr. di Genova,” comes eventually. “There was one more question, before I take my leave.” He smooths down unseen creases in his breeches, eyes following the motion of his hands as he finds his courage.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Be brave, doctor.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani chuckles at himself. “Yes, I suppose I am making a fuss over nothing. I was only wondering about the process.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Process?” Nicolò asks, thrown.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is not something I have been able to ask the women. My other subjects, that is. It is a touchy subject, seeing as they are often told they are intruding on territory that does not belong to them, often treated with wariness and fear that they will become wild and turn everyone they see.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò nods, understanding dawning. “I see.” He swallows, turning to look away from the doctor before gathering himself to speak. “It is a difficult story to tell, but I will endeavour to do my best and explain only that which is relevant to your research.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani’s silence is somewhat reverential, allowing Nicolò the space he needs.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is a gruesome process. Far more than the way we feed on living subjects; it is very difficult to achieve without someone’s full consent.” He sighs, gathering his thoughts. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Gauvain turned me, as you are already aware. I needed… a place to be safe. Gauvain offered me that, but could only do that for me if I was turned. My situation was unique in this sense, as we regularly offer temporary safety to those willing to stay in a house of monsters.” He says the word with a wry grimace, the doctor wincing in sympathy.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The point is that it was a necessity that I have regretted often in my years, but never blamed anyone but myself for. Gauvain has saved me more times than I could ever recount—in taking my life he took my pain and now we share it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò exhales a long breath, hand straying to the mark on his chest without his permission. “To achieve rebirth one must be emptied of blood entirely, one must be drained from the heart.” This time when he taps his chest it is with intent, searching for understanding in the doctor’s eyes. “It takes a long time—far too long. It is too much blood for one vampire to drink by himself, hence why we create Families to help us along.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“For my rebirth it was Gauvain and Jean-Marc, and still they had to pierce me here,” his hand strays to the vein at his neck. “And here,” down by his thighs.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It was a slow death. It was not accidental.” He speaks with the gravity of someone who needs to be understood, and Dr. al-Kaysani nods his understanding. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“From there it is unknown to any of us why it happens. There is nothing more to be done beyond draining the body, even if such an act by itself is not enough to create a vampire.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor laughs a dark little laugh. “Oh yes, I have heard of those who try to do it to themselves.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Precisely. A vampire must be the one to initiate it, which is where the myth comes from that we kill and turn other beings easily.” His voice softens. “But it is hard on everyone involved.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They fall silent, briefly. Then Dr. al-Kaysani clears his throat. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” he says. “For that. For trusting me with it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò nods, privately taken aback by how much recounting the story has taken out of him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They stand and shake hands cordially before Nicolò walks the doctor back to the door.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I would reconvene with you next week, around the same time?” Dr. al-Kaysani asks, shrugging into his coat. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That would be beautiful.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor smiles as he puts his hat on. Then he reaches out and touches the side of Nicolò’s arm.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will be looking forward to it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He turns and leaves, and Nicolò is left to wonder at the warmth spreading through his body as he closes the door. </span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Today I think it would be prudent of me to examine you physically,” Dr. al-Kaysani says, setting down his bag. It is not the same one as the previous week, somewhat larger and very sturdy, and Nicolò supposes there must be some manner of medical equipment contained within it. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It has been a week, and still Nicolò feels pleasantly wrong-footed at the doctor’s presence in his life, that he would take a genuine interest in Nicolò’s kind. As such, he has not at all prepared for the idea of being examined as the doctor proposes. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do not think I’ve ever been physically examined.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh.” The doctor, equally, seems puzzled to be the first mortal with such an interest in vampires. “Not to worry, it is a fairly simple affair.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He motions for Nicolò to sit and bends over his bag. Nicolò does as bid, smiling at the easy way the doctor has commandeered Nicolò’s sitting room into his own private practice.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“All I will need from you now is your wrist and some silence as I count your heartbeats.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They aren’t very fast.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quite so! Which is why I would like to measure them.” He gestures at him and Nicolò starts to unbutton his sleeve. “I have consulted with my other subjects, and would more than anything be interested in whether there is some form of divergence between different vampires.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anything interesting?” Nicolò finds himself surprised at his own curiosity, but the doctor merely turns around with a small smile.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nothing conclusive so far.” He bends to a crouch next to Nicolò and holds out his hand for his wrist. “Perhaps in a minute my theories might be confirmed.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani’s hands are soft and warm against Nicolò’s skin. While neither fact is particularly astonishing, it has been some time since Nicolò has been gently touched without it leading to sex. He did not realise how much he had missed it. The doctor’s fingers twitch against his skin with every pulse of blood through his veins, brow furrowed in concentration. It gives Nicolò ample time to take in his face; his delicately freckled nose and the jut of his lower lip as he counts the seconds silently, his lovely curls. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stands close enough for Nicolò to smell the oil he must use on his beard, even without Nicolò’s enhanced senses. Nicolò wonders idly whether the leap of his heartbeat will throw Dr. al-Kaysani’s results. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani steps back and writes something down in his notebook. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” he says, “that was not so bad, now was it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò clears his throat and busies himself re-buttoning his sleeve. “Not at all.” It does not quite encompass the peculiar way it had made him feel—Nicolò is certain, though, that whatever words he could come up with to explain that particular sensation would not be appropriately said in polite company. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did it prove your theory?” He asks, to have something else to think about.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t believe so. It requires further testing, but I had wondered whether vampire families would sync up their heartbeats subconsciously as perhaps another response to those who turn you.” He taps the end of his pencil against his lips, once, twice, his eyebrows curled into a frown. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course it has been some time since I fed,” Nicolò says, wanting nothing more than to prove this man right on whatever he wishes, whether it be possible or not. “And my heart rate changes some with that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The pencil rests against Dr. al-Kaysani’s bottom lip, shrewd eyes turned toward Nicolò. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” he says, rather briskly. “I have another request.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He clears his throat and turns back to his bag. “I would like to feed you. In truth I intended to ask that of you from the beginning but I felt I needed to be comfortable with you before broaching the subject.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He settles his eyes on Nicolò. In the same gaze there is to be found both challenge and apprehension, and Nicolò understands the latter is for his reaction rather than the act itself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I cannot fault you for that,” Nicolò begins. “Only to assure you that I find nourishment in blood from animals as much as humans. Did I not tell you about our Family butcher last week? She lives just down the street, her line has been feeding us for-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, that’s quite alright,” the doctor interrupts him. “I remember. I did not misunderstand that you take nourishment from humans on occasion as well?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò shakes his head. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“In that case if you’ve no objections—nor I—why not?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It does not feel good,” Nicolò says with some hesitation, uncertain of the doctor’s goal with all this. “That there is some effect that makes the mortal enjoy it is a myth.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani nods. “I understand. But when I said my intention was to study vampires, I meant it wholeheartedly. How could I turn down the opportunity of witnessing first-hand the effect a vampire has on a human, and vice versa? Surely there is something to be learned there, as well."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That… No, I suppose I’ve no objections.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor smiles and starts pulling at his cravat.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh! Right this moment?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani blinks. “Unless you prefer to wait?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò’s stomach feels tight, a human reaction to something quite supernatural, but it <em>has</em> been some days since his last meal. “Perhaps somewhere less communal. Gauvain would have my head if I let you bleed over his furniture.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor laughs, already tucking his cravat back in. “I understand completely.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò takes the doctor to his personal quarters, reasoning with himself that this is where he takes all guests he intends to feed on and Dr. al-Kaysani should be no exception. He carefully tries to ignore that the context for those other guests usually includes a night of earthly pleasures, but the mind makes associations. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For his part the doctor seems to understand the trust involved in an act like this, keeping his hands to himself and standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Nicolò is glad for the fire he lit earlier, the remnant of warmth making both of them comfortable. It is almost a shame to have to light the lamps, moonlight playing off of Dr. al-Kaysani’s features in such a way to make him look both mysterious and severe.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, it gives both a moment to compose themselves, out of sight of the other. When the room is lit Nicolò turns to see the doctor standing where he left him in front of the window. The only movement he has made has been the setting down of his bag and the retrieving of his ever-present journal and pencil.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò smiles kindly at him. “We may do this here, if you like.” He motions to the other side of the room, split in two by his bed that most nights feels too big for him. Dr. al-Kaysani, when close enough, puts his hand in Nicolò’s extended palm. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He lets himself be led, to be positioned in front of Nicolò’s mirror. There is an undeniable tension to it now, a stark clarity to what will happen next. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“May I take off my cravat, now?” Dr. al-Kaysani’s voice is steady though quiet, intimate in the small space between their bodies. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò nods. “And shirt, please, or the blood will ruin it. That is, if you are comfortable.” He looks away. “I would not ask you to undress so but I do not usually do this unless it is a prelude to…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mr. di Genova, how scandalous!” His tone is jovial, the three buttons on his waistcoat already undone. “Do not fret, good man.” He reaches out to touch Nicolò’s shoulder lightly. “I am a doctor; I am no stranger to such matters.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò smiles easily. Dr. al-Kaysani’s hand is still on his shoulder and he entertains the notion that perhaps he might take it and press a kiss to it, following the ritual and rhythm of other feedings. The air feels heavy with tension between them.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A mournful note breaks the spell. Nicolò steps out of reach quickly, into the washroom to fetch a cloth.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My apologies.” The violin continues through the floorboards. “That’ll be Sébastien.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As Nicolò fusses in the washroom, the doctor makes quick work of his shirt, laying it aside on Nicolò’s dresser. Back in the bedroom, Nicolò watches Dr. al-Kaysani look at himself, a little frown on his face. His nudity is a stark contrast from the formal man Nicolò had seen in his sitting room. He looks comfortable with himself though, a relaxed air about him as he smooths his hands along his torso.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">From Nicolò’s vantage point he has a clear view of the doctor’s back, from his shoulder blades to the divots at the end of his spine just above his breeches. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can ask him to keep it down,” he says, for want of something to do.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, that’s alright.” His eyes track Nicolò’s movement in the reflection of the mirror. He tilts his head to allow for Nicolò’s hand holding the cloth. “He sounds unhappy.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A droplet of water rolls down Dr. al-Kaysani’s chest.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He is. He did not join our Family under happy circumstances.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor hums thoughtfully and Nicolò indulges himself, cleaning more diligently than necessary a path from up by his ear to the jut of his shoulder and back towards his throat. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why did you never return to Italy?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò pauses his careful ministrations. “There was no point.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is not a satisfactory answer, Nicolò knows, but although the doctor’s eyes flit up to Nicolò’s face, scrutinising and calculating, Dr. al-Kaysani politely does not mention it further. He waits patiently for Nicolò to return the cloth to the hamper and even through the acceleration of his heart he keeps perfectly still.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò rests his hand on the doctor’s still-wet shoulder. “I should like to explain to you how it will feel before it happens.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani exhales—barely a puff—and relaxes somewhat. He nods.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will ask you to tilt your head, like so. My hand will come to rest beneath your chin and the other one I will keep upon your shoulder. I will bite you here,” the doctor shivers very slightly at his gentle touch. “And drink from your blood.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He steps back for the next portion, to allow the doctor some space to reconsider. “Once I start, it will be difficult for me to stop. If you require a break or to stop entirely, I would urge you to push me rather than ask nicely; it will not make me feel better to hurt you unintentionally than it will to be pushed back.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I am not afraid.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, you forget you cannot lie to me.” He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I can hear your heartbeat.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As if on cue, it picks up slightly—one loud thump against the doctor’s ribs. He smiles, a bright but bashful thing. “Perhaps a little. Or should I say that it is not fear you hear but excitement?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò laughs quietly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are quite adept at that, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lying?” His eyes twinkle.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just so. Making others feel comfortable in difficult situations.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor ducks his head to hide his pleased expression. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you ready?” Nicolò asks, voice soft.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani does not move his head, only looks back up at Nicolò through his eyelashes. For a long moment he merely gazes at him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The baring of the doctor’s throat happens slowly; the low rush of his blood through his veins—the background noise Nicolò is accustomed to tuning out—becomes a roar in Nicolò’s ears. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His fangs ache when they drop and he gently cradles the doctor’s chin in his palm, thumb pressed against his bearded cheek. Despite being washed only minutes earlier Nicolò can taste the doctor’s sweat on his tongue when he closes his mouth around him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s an intake of breath, however small, as he pierces Dr. al-Kaysani’s artery and he begins to take his lifeblood from him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Later, when he is perhaps more lucid, Nicolò might compare the first rush of blood upon his tongue to the sipping down of sunlight. No sooner does the skin of the doctor’s throat give way to Nicolò’s teeth than he is consumed entirely by the notion that there will never in his life be anything that tastes as nourishing and wonderful as this man’s blood, and it is like nothing Nicolò has ever experienced before. Some small part of Nicolò stops to wonder at the universe for putting perhaps the most perfectly unattainable man into his lap, and then that, too, is lost to his instincts.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shifts his head to press his nose closer to where the doctor’s long throat joins with his jaw, revelling in the heat and scent of him. From taste, to touch, to smell, all his senses are attuned to and overwhelmed by Yusuf al-Kaysani.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò fills himself with long, glorious pulls from the doctor’s bloodstream and feels his body gradually warming with it. His cheeks flush, red with the doctor’s own blood, he shivers at the suddenly noticed cold everywhere but where his chest is pressed against Dr. al-Kaysani’s bare back, warm even through Nicolò’s layers. His cock, too, stirs with it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Half gone and entirely too preoccupied for any good sense or reason, he does not shift his body—not away from the man in front of him in order to avoid suspicion, nor, blessedly, further into him, seeking friction the way he might have done with any other willing mortal in his bedroom.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is only when Dr. al-Kaysani’s confused and wandering hand makes contact with his erection that both of them jerk, Nicolò out of reach and the doctor’s hand to fold against his own thigh. Nicolò can hear his gasp of surprise, a near-silent intake of breath. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is no room left in Nicolò’s mind to expect himself to be pushed away, and as such there is no surprise when it does not come. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a moment he starts to feel sated. More of the doctor’s blood runs down along his own chest than Nicolò can swallow and carefully he retracts his teeth back into his gums, laves his tongue once more against the wound cleaning any excess of blood away. It is only then that he realises what is happening in his breeches.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My deepest apologies,” Nicolò pulls from the doctor’s skin abruptly. “That was most certainly not supposed to happen.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani is already on the move, and Nicolò fears he may run far from him and leave him with only the tease of a burgeoning friendship. But the doctor is only looking for the cloth Nicolò cleaned him with earlier.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No matter,” he replies, quickly and somewhat embarrassed. “As I said. I am a doctor, I am no stranger to such things.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He smiles kindly, in a reassuring contrast to his tone. Already a mottled blue and purple bruise is forming along the column of his throat, across his shoulder and chest. He wipes at his chest with the cloth, far too dry now to be of much use.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Let me bring you a fresh one.” Nicolò does not wait for a response, instead hurrying along to the washroom and taking his meticulous time wetting and wringing the water out again. When he feels he is able to face the doctor again he does so with more apologies on his lips.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They die there, in the back of his throat, as he watches Dr. al-Kaysani rub his fingers along his wound, smearing the blood around on his bare skin. So focussed is he on his own image in the mirror, scrutinising as he pokes and prods, that he does not look up at Nicolò’s return. Nicolò takes a long moment just to stare, before remembering himself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Here,” he extends his arm as long as it will go for fear of intruding on the doctor’s personal space. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani thanks him and cleans first his fingers and then gently the area around the bite, ignoring where the hair on his chest has gone red with his own blood.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you fetch me my journal, please?” He sounds thoughtful, seemingly no longer concerned with the mortifying incident mere minutes prior. “These wounds, they heal faster than others, no?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I would not presume to know,” Nicolò admits. “It has been quite some time since I have seen mortal healing of any other kind.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor hums. “Yes, then. They heal faster.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He finally tears his gaze from his own self to grasp his notebook, only then noticing Nicolò.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” He says, sounding quite delighted. “You blush!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This, of course, only serves to make matters worse.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, right,” Nicolò stammers. “The blood—your blood, that is, it… What I mean to say is yes, I blush.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani nods in understanding, as if something has clicked into place. “Ah, so the…” he waves his hand. “All natural reactions to the newly introduced blood being absorbed into your own veins? And I quite suppose that speed with which it happens might have something to do with the faster healing of your kind!” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before Nicolò can object he has already started scribbling this down, and guilt overtakes Nicolò when he realises he has absolutely no intention of setting him straight now.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“…Quite,” is all he can come up with.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After the doctor has inspected and investigated himself to his heart’s content, and re-dressed in the shirt and waistcoat—cravat still abandoned on the dresser, unwilling to ruin the fine silk until certain his wounds will not re-open—he posits himself onto Nicolò’s bed, journal in hand. Nicolò briefly debates sitting on the floor or remaining on his feet, before Dr. al-Kaysani pats the bed by his side.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So,” he says before turning to face Nicolò. “Elevated heart rate, increased response of all bodily functions that require blood. I don’t suppose there is anything else?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The more recent a meal, the easier it is to go out into the sunlight,” Nicolò offers. “Although it is still more tiring to us than mortals.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor nods and notes this down. Then he gets a glint in his eye. “I do not suppose there is a difference between animal and human blood, in this?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò considers and shakes his head. “Not so much, no. It is only that we do not drink the animal’s blood directly as opposed to mortals.” He coughs delicately. “But the fresher the blood, the more potent its effect.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How about taste?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” Nicolò does not believe he has ever blushed so much fresh out of a feeding. “Naturally there is a difference between taste. Much like humans eat different animals for their flavour, so do we.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But every chicken tastes like chicken, no? Is this the same for mortal blood? Are we all similar, in that regard?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò wonders whether this is truly relevant to the doctor’s research, or if he was sent specifically to torment Nicolò into admitting things he under no circumstance wishes to admit to. “It is not the same, no.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blessedly, he does not ask what he tastes like. Instead he peers thoughtfully at the ceiling and Nicolò supposes he is working something out for himself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Does it vary depending on what the mortal has consumed beforehand?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò finds himself perplexed. “I would not know. I have never thought to wonder that before.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” Dr. al-Kaysani smiles mischievously. “We will have to run some tests, then.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The early evening is crisp but dry, a blessing to come at the end of a week of rainfall. All day it has been sunny, and Nicolò did not want to miss out on such weather entirely, leaving the home as the final rays of sun were only just disappearing beyond the horizon, allowing for Nicolò to feel the warmth in the air without the drowsiness of too much sun. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In his enthusiasm to enjoy the temperate weather he is also slightly early in his arrival.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani, however unprepared he may have been, does not look anything less than pleased to see him. His deft fingers are still buttoning up his waistcoat as he pulls the door open, ushering him inside. Nicolò marvels at the wonder of stockinged feet; a sign of enough familiarity to welcome a man into your home while only half dressed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come in, come in!” The doctor is already halfway down the hallway as he calls out. Nicolò hesitates on the threshold. The deed is done, now, but he wonders whether Dr. al-Kaysani even noticed the ease with which he allowed Nicolò this sacred entry into his most protected space. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He hesitates for too long.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” the doctor says, put-out. “Did I do it wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, not at all. Only, are you sure? I might wait out here if you prefer.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t be silly. Nicolò di Genova be welcome in my home, but please mind the mud.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Already he has turned back around and away from Nicolò, calling out about something to drink before they leave. Nicolò tries to fight the warmth that is spreading from deep inside his belly, fails miserably, and steps inside Dr. al-Kaysani’s home.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I drink no alcohol and therefore have no wine, but will you take tea with me?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please, if you’re offering.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani pokes his head out from what Nicolò presumes to be his bedroom, hopping on one foot as he forces the other into his shoe. He smiles and says, “I’m offering.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As the doctor returns to the business of dressing and making tea—a comfortable chatter accompanying both—Nicolò has a chance to inspect his surroundings.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are a painter?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani groans. “Please excuse the mess,” he says, referring to an easel taking up one corner, paint and rags piled precariously on a stool next to it. “The time got away from me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A tea set is placed on the low table between two comfortable looking armchairs, but Nicolò is not ready to move on from the painting quite yet.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you allow me to see?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor doesn’t look up from his pouring, merely gestures with an elbow as not to lift his fingers from the teapot. “It’s nothing so far, but hopefully I’ll get her into shape before long."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He carefully lifts the tarp covering the canvas to reveal the portrait of a woman. It’s nothing like the fashions of the time, feeling altogether far too personal with her sharp but kind gaze and knowing smile. Only the ivy twisted in her dark braids feels thematically recognisable.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s beautiful.” And it is, her dark skin warm and luminous even as she remains unfinished. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor’s tone is soft when he replies. “Her name is Nile. She’s sweet as she is lovely and twice as quick-witted. Here,” he presses Nicolò’s cold hands around a small glass of tea. “Drink.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò trails Dr. al-Kaysani back to the sitting area, wondering slightly at the identity of this woman and who, specifically, she is to the doctor.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you been well?” The doctor asks as he takes his seat and sips from the tea. It’s sweet and quite refreshing, even warm.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are asking this of <em>me</em>?” Nicolò laughs. “I am quite fine. What of you, have you healed alright?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani’s fingers stray to his throat without thought. “Yes, quite alright. I do not believe I even have a scar, merely some discolouration.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò nods. “That will fade in time. You have not experienced any negative effects?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor smiles. “Why, Mr. di Genova, one would almost think you have been worried about me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have been.” His sincerity is a surprise to both of them, and Dr. al-Kaysani’s smile softens. He reaches out, touches Nicolò’s knee. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve been quite alright. You needn’t think so poorly of yourself, you did nothing to me that I did not quite actively ask for.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò ducks his head. For want of something to do, he drinks deeply from his cup.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you been here before?” Dr. al-Kaysani asks in surprise when they enter the restaurant and deposit their cloaks onto the racks provided. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, yes. Not for a long time, but I have permission to be here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor looks chastised. “My apologies, that was rude.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not at all. I understand that it is a novelty to dine with one such as myself.” Nicolò says it with a cheeky smile, only barely lifting the corner of his mouth. “And this serves in your favour, as I will be able to recommend you the best meals tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani laughs a bright burst of laughter, shaking his head. “Oh no, I see how it is. You only want me to eat something <em>you</em> enjoy and hope you’ll taste it later.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò ducks his head and smiles indulgently. The doctor only brings his mouth in close to Nicolò’s ear and whispers not to worry. “If you like it, I will let you steal from my plate.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He is already halfway to their table when Nicolò gets his traitorous heart under control.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When they order, the doctor does, in fact, allow Nicolò to order for both of them.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This isn’t necessary, of course,” Nicolò gestures to the soup with his spoon. “It does not do anything for me in terms of feeding or filling me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani nods as if he already knew that. “But you enjoy it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We try not to over-indulge. If there is no need for us to eat there is no need for us to make others work for our food, but on the occasions that I hunt I bring the meat here—allowances are made.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then the most innocuous question; “what is your favourite food?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And all Nicolò can think to say is <em>you</em>. By sheer force of will, the word stays locked behind his front teeth. Instead he lifts a shoulder neatly and drinks long and deep from his wine.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani drops the question, turning to his own dinner. He eats with the precision of those to whom food is very dear, be it through circumstance or preference. Nicolò does not stop to wonder which it is, although if it is the former it is equally the latter; the doctor’s cries of enthusiasm after each bite are as charming as they are thorough.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After one particularly splendid remark, Nicolò laughs with a sweetness he has not felt since Celeste very earnestly scolded the family cat for scratching Gauvain’s new and stylish tablecloths. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What is <em>your</em> favourite dish? And do not say all of them, you must pick.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor’s mouth snaps shut as if he had indeed been on the brink of saying exactly that. “I suppose I must confess to a love of sugar.” He works his fingers through his beard in thought. “All manner of cakes and pastries… Perhaps you will find me overly trendy for this, but I seek brioche everywhere I might find it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Butter, sugar, eggs,” Nicolò intones. “How could I blame you? You like sweet and soft things.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani’s eyes on his are near physical in their warmth and weight. “So I do.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They turn back to their meals. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was wondering,” the doctor says suddenly, carefully arranging his cutlery where it needed no arranging. “If perhaps later you might draw me a bath?” He meets Nicolò’s gaze, as if there is something more hidden beneath those words. Feeling quite out of his depth, Nicolò’s mind whirs.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Possibilities flash behind Nicolò’s eyes, ranging from deeply romantic to wildly inappropriate, and he discards all of those out of hand. Still, Nicolò cannot feel anything other than as if he is being propositioned.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He debates the meaning for too long; Dr. al-Kaysani’s eyes drop from his own as he delicately clears his throat. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Only, I did not want to be unwashed for you, for your mouth.” His cheeks and ears are dark with embarrassment, a rotten feeling spreading in Nicolò’s chest to imagine being the source of it. “I only meant it to be cordial.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I assure you I do not mind, but if that would put you at ease then I am certain I could arrange it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor smiles gratefully and neither speak any more of it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is only when Nicolò has handed Dr. al-Kaysani the softest towel he could find and closed the door on the washroom—now nicely warm thanks to the steaming bath—that Nicolò understands the extent of his problems.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not only will he now be in trouble with Celeste for handing out her favourite towel—the one the whole Family has quietly decided belongs to her, if only to keep the peace—Dr. al-Kaysani, beautiful, gentle Dr. Yusuf al-Kaysani, who will soon be pressed against Nicolò’s front as he bares his most vulnerable parts to him, is presently naked in Nicolò’s bathtub. Naked and sweating, if the heat of the water is anything to go by. Wanting to be clean for Nicolò, as if <em>Nicolò</em> is the one doing the doctor the favour.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò sits down heavily onto his neatly made bed, smooths his palms over his knees. He is put in mind of the drop of water that rolled down the doctor’s chest as he let Nicolò clean him, down into the hair covering him, over the dark bud of his nipple. Nicolò’s cock, sluggish with the lack of fresh blood, twitches in his breeches. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He drops his head into his hands, debating whether he has the time to take himself in hand now and avoid a similar situation to last week’s—discards the idea. It would take too long to first coax himself into hardness and then to completion in his current state, even including fantasies of the naked and relaxed doctor next door.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò mentally berates himself for his thoughts. He does not easily deny himself the pleasures of life and usually his bed is warmed by plenty of men, but Dr. al-Kaysani is no mere pretty face. He should feel ashamed that he would even consider ruining the working relationship for an evening of the doctor’s attentions; it would be selfish to ruin his esteem for all vampires just because Nicolò cannot keep his hands to himself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This research is important. Nicolò knows that. He will not jeopardise that for anything. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He is so lost to his thoughts that he only notices the doctor when his hand lands on Nicolò’s shoulder. He looks worried, thumb digging very gently into the space next to Nicolò’s collar bone.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you alright?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò exhales sharply, like something is being punched out of him. “Yes,” he says, and decides in that moment that it is the truth. He stands abruptly, dislodging the doctor’s hand, and smiles in apology.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you like me to repeat how this will happen?” He asks, kindly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani laughs. “Dear fellow, I do not think in all my life I will forget the events of last week. It was the most singular experience, I quite remember how it went.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is only when the doctor turns around that Nicolò realises how close they are standing; his breath disturbs the hair by the doctor’s temple.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you not… prefer to do this in front of the mirror?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò is puzzled. “So you might see what I am doing and be able to stop me before I do anything you do not want?” It comes out in an uncertain squeak, feeling suddenly wrong-footed. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani meets his gaze over his own shoulder. He takes a long considering look at Nicolò’s expression.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I see that this bothers you more than it might bother me, so we will go and stand in front of the mirror. But you must know that I trust you, implicitly. You have given me no reason to do otherwise.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He keeps eye contact for a long moment. Then he turns and walks to the mirror, leaving Nicolò to follow—waging a war between his heart and mind.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor does not allow Nicolò his hesitance for long, wrapping his hand around Nicolò’s and positioning it beneath his jaw. His beard is slightly wet from the bath, Nicolò notices, and the hair at the nape of his neck equally so. His skin feels warm beneath Nicolò’s palm on his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò adjusts his grip somewhat, angling his body to leave as much space between his chest and Dr. al-Kaysani’s back as he can. The doctor thwarts that, too, shuffling back into Nicolò. His gaze in the mirror feels like a challenge.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They don’t speak. The moment feels fragile, feels as if Dr. al-Kaysani has seen right through Nicolò—which is exactly the situation they find themselves in. Nicolò lowers his lips to the doctor’s throat.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The last thought to go through his head before he gives himself over to the doctor’s bloodstream, is to process the deliberately slow slide of Dr. al-Kaysani’s eyelids closing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To Dr. al-Kaysani’s great disappointment, he tastes exactly the same after a meal of bread and soup as one of great monetary value. To Nicolò’s great relief, this does not mean he is finished with Nicolò as a research subject. The third week finds them once again before the fire in the sitting room—albeit more comfortable with each other now. The doctor has taken off his shoes, folding his feet beneath himself in a habit that Nicolò can only describe as unendingly endearing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is a far slower day now than has been, the doctor’s journal in his lap but still wrapped in its leather coverings. Instead, Nicolò has been regaling him with greatly embellished tales of his siblings, cheerful at the knowledge that his fragile friendship with the doctor is safe for at least one evening more.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He tries not to feel too hurt by the crack of Dr. al-Kaysani’s jaw as he yawns, widely.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My apologies,” the doctor says, once he regains the control of his lips. “It has been a very long week.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Suddenly Nicolò feels rotten for even considering that Dr. al-Kaysani would be purposefully rude to him. “Oh?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, I shouldn’t want to bore you with the details.” He smiles a small, shy smile. “Or scandalise you, for that matter. We had a difficult birth in the clinic yesterday—or rather, this morning.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please,” Nicolò says, breathless with the idea of being so close to new life. “Bore me all you like. Only, would you take some coffee? I’m sure I can find some lying around, Sébastien is addicted to the stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani’s smile turns bright. “That’s very thoughtful of you, thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With only a word of his immediate return, Nicolò leaves the doctor comfortable in front of the fire.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the short few minutes it takes for Nicolò to prepare two small cups of coffee, Dr. al-Kaysani seems to have closed his eyes and dozed off peacefully. The fire is warm, the chairs are comfortable, and Sébastien has taken up another forlorn tune. It would have been impossible for anyone to stay awake.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò stands in the doorway, hanging onto the tray in his hands as if it were his own heart. Grip tight, heart soft, he watches the doctor shift slightly to allow his head to sink even further onto his own shoulder. His handsome features usually animated with big-smiled enthusiasm look serene and peaceful in sleep. Nicolò wonders at what dreams this impossible man must have at night.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Very gently, as not to disturb him, Nicolò sets the tray down onto the low table in front of the doctor. He carefully debates the best course of action, wanting nothing more than to sit across from him and watch over his sleeping form until morning. Then decides to be reasonable, and that gently waking him now would be preferable to disturbing any deep dreams later on.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dr. al-Kaysani,” he touches his shoulder. “Doctor.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor makes a small noise but does not stir. Feeling brave, Nicolò tries something new.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yusuf?” He applies a small amount of pressure to the doctor’s shoulder. “Wake up.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani is as beatific in waking as he is in everything else; dark eyes blinking open, serene features immediately overtaken by a smile. “Did I fall asleep?” His lack of self-consciousness refreshes Nicolò as much as everything else the doctor does, and he nods. “My apologies.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sits up with another creaking yawn and smooths his hands down his shirt. Nicolò stops him when he tries to reach for his coffee cup.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please,” he says, still standing next to the doctor’s chair. “Allow me to take you home.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani does not pull his wrist from under Nicolò’s touch. He does not move at all, only to blink those soft eyes at him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But you have made me this coffee,” he protests feebly. “And I wanted to tell you of the birth…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will make you more coffee next time. You would only feel rotten for telling the story wrong, tired as you are.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani turns his arm beneath Nicolò’s grasp, putting them palm to palm. “You have seen right through to the very heart of me.” He laces their fingers together. “Alright. I will tell you the story when you come sit for a portrait for me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò pulls his hand out of the doctor’s in surprise, paying no mind to the way his expression changes and his hand falls dejectedly into his own lap. “Me?” He asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I…” Dr. al-Kaysani is at a loss for words. “Did I go too far?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not at all, only… why?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor’s teeth click together where he clenches his jaw, turning his head to stare into the fire. “I would like to tell you it is because you’ve a singular beauty about you, but I fear that would only make you uncomfortable. Perhaps it would be enough to know that I would like to spend more of my time with you, present research notwithstanding.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes?” Dr. al-Kaysani sounds hopeful as he finds Nicolò’s eyes once more.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes. Anything you please, yes.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His tone turns teasing. “Anything? Then I must have you in sunlight.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you mean it? Of course I can do preliminary sketches by candle-light, but-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I mean it,” Nicolò interrupts. “I will let you paint me in sunlight.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani’s eyes crinkle, lovely and sweet with happiness. Then his face falls in shock.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” He exclaims. “But you have not fed yet! You must allow me to do that first, before I return home.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, that’s alright. You are tired, and I am perfectly capable of walking to the butcher’s down the street.” His tone is jovial, even though he can see the doctor is about to protest. He covers his clasped hands where they rest on his journal with his own. “No, don’t argue; I insist. I will not starve.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He relents. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò’s evening tastes like cold coffee; which still, somehow, tastes like sunlight.</span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The sketches are done by candle-light. Nicolò tries, again, to reassure the doctor that this is not necessary, but he staunchly refuses to hear it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will not take more from you than I need. You are kind to offer, but it makes no difference for the sketch whether you are exhausted by the end of it or not,” said he, when pressed. “Besides, I enjoy being here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this he had gestured to Nicolò’s Family’s sitting room, warm and plush as it has always been, and Nicolò had seen it with fresh eyes. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I enjoy you being here, as well.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani had smiled, eyes turned towards the floor. Then he had taken his sketchbook—a large thing, with board for covers—and bade him to sit.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I did mention I would tell you of the birth,” the doctor says, pencil working lightly across the page. “But I must admit I am not very good at…” his eyes flit up to Nicolò, then back to the page. He adjusts a line. “Multi-tasking."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò laughs, clearly the reaction Dr. al-Kaysani was hoping for, judging by the way he bites his cheek to keep his smile hidden. “I see,” he says. “So you are hoping I will fill the time with chatter?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“As you like.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò searches his mind for something to say. “I admit, I feel some pressure to tell you something of great interest now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not at all. Perhaps we will start with something easy: have you had your portrait made before?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò’s face falls. He brings the smile back quick as he can, not wanting to admit to the doctor the circumstances of his first portrait. “We have thought of it, for the Family.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But not yet?” Dr. al-Kaysani sounds surprised. “You sit very well.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò fights the irrational urge to slump and turn away, as if he can erase the last few minutes. The damage has been done. In any case, Nicolò wonders if it isn’t better this way; to admit to what he does not want to admit to, for the doctor to hear it from himself rather than someone who was not there to witness his past life.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he says, after some debate. “Not for the Family quite yet. But I have sat for portraits before.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blessedly, the doctor does not say anything. Only lets Nicolò gather his thoughts to the soft scrape of his pencil on the page.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you… know? Who I am, I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He lifts one shoulder, elegant and slow. “I have some idea. One hears… rumours.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò can’t help the ugly laugh he lets out at that. “Ah, just so.” He sighs deeply. “Very well, let me say it now so we can move past it. My first family, the one I was born to, had power which they abused. They had the means to commission many portraits, and I am sure there are several that still exist somewhere, although I do not care to waste time worrying about that. I have… changed much, these past years.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani makes a small noise of assent, as if unsure as to whether he is allowed to react yet. Or perhaps only unsure as to <em>how</em> to react. Nicolò refuses to blame him for this.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was not a good person.” It occurs to Nicolò that he has not said so out loud before, for however much he has discussed it or thought about it. “And it shames me to admit that I did not know, did not think to wonder of my family’s cruelty before that cruelty was turned back onto myself.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you leave before or after the fire?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò turns to the doctor with some sharpness. “Dr. al-Kaysani, you have held out on me,” he says with a lightness he does not feel. “It seems you have more than <em>some</em> idea of my identity. But to answer your question; I set the fire.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah. Then this would be the trouble that led you to Gauvain?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just so. Would you like the full story?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor looks back up at him. “Pardon,” he starts. “I did not mean-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please.” Nicolò tries to regain some control of his tone, which has gone icy. “This anger is not directed at you. I know it is selfish, considering what I myself have done to people, but I still have not forgiven my family for what happened.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, then. I would like the full story.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò nods, just once. “I fell in love. My family did not approve, and perhaps looking back I would not either, if for very different reasons. Violence was my mother tongue back then and ruin was the only way I could imagine retaliation. I had very little concern for other human life, especially that of lower status than my own, although I did try to wait until no one was home.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò winces, remembering how he had found out only later that several servants were still on the premises. How he hadn’t cared, even then. Not much, anyway, not much more than to wonder what would happen to his immortal soul. The irony is not lost on him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The majority made it out alright, some scrapes and bruises but relatively unharmed. There were two that died, unable to make it out when the fire really started to get going. The servant, they told me her name, but it shames me to say that I do not remember it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It has been some time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Nicolò corrects him. “Even then I could not put a face to the name.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He waits until Dr. al-Kaysani meets his eyes, nods his understanding.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But then there was the nobleman.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But then there was the nobleman. If it had just been the girl… I would have been fine.” It sounds cold to Nicolò now, but it is the truth. He is lost in thought for a while, remembering the fear he felt and feeling furious at his younger self for feeling entitled to that fear.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What of your lover?” The doctor asks. “Did she never try to find you, after?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The duke’s son, he was the nobleman who died.” Nicolò swallows heavily, remembering. “His name was Teodor and he was no better than me. But I loved him as I had never loved anything before.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The only sound to be heard then is the gentle crackling of the fire. Nicolò does not believe this to be what will push the doctor away, not after what he has just confessed to, but it does not stop him from holding his breath. There is a chime to be heard from somewhere deep within the house.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well…” Dr. al-Kaysani says, very carefully. “Keep your chin up.” And Nicolò recognises it as both the instruction from artist to model as the absolution of one man by another the doctor means it to be.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t get a chance to say anything more, a sharp rap on the doorframe alerting both of them to a new presence.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nico,” Gauvain of France, patriarch of Nicolò’s Family stands in the doorway. His dark eyes are wide and he looks somewhat pale beneath his neat beard. “There is someone here for your friend. She says it is an emergency, and that both of you should come at once.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani is out of his seat only a second later, shouldering past Gauvain with Nicolò hot on his heels. Gauvain stops Nicolò with a hand on his chest.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nico…” Gauvain swallows heavily and up close Nicolò can see the teeth protruding from his gums. “She is… I understand why she needed to come and I will not blame either her or the doctor for her presence, but please make sure that she does not return without prior permission.” He says it in a rush, a low and dangerous note to his voice. Nicolò has not seen him like this before.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell me you understand.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will do as you ask.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gauvain nods and releases him. When Nicolò joins the doctor in the hallway he is already shrugging into his overcoat, worry writ plain on his features.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mr. di Genova,” he says, urgently. “There has been an accident and my assistance is greatly needed. Miss Freeman, she’s a friend who witnessed it, came to fetch me. She is bringing out the horses now, your Father said it was alright—but accompany us, if you will.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course,” Nicolò agrees. Then he puts his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “It will be alright. I have full faith in your capabilities, Dr. al-Kaysani—surely you needn’t worry so much.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor holds his gaze, and seemingly his breath. He is about to speak when he is interrupted, suddenly. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come on!” Comes a voice from right outside. A young woman holds the reins to two horses, one belonging to Nicolò and the other to his sister, and with a jolt Nicolò realises the source of Gauvain’s reaction—she is a vampire. The quality of being undead is quite unrecognisable to mortals, but the blood that rushes through her veins is slow and quiet, her heartbeat coming only once every few seconds.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He does not get a chance to ask whether she is one of the doctor’s other subjects, already being ushered onto his horse. To his great and distracting delight, Dr. al-Kaysani joins him on her back, hands tight on Nicolò’s waist.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hope you do not mind,” he whispers frantically. “I am not fond of horses.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will ride carefully.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then they set off after Miss Freeman, galloping through the city on Celeste’s shiny black mare. With every sharp turn they take, the doctor’s fingers clench around Nicolò’s waist, distracting both in sensation and in the desire for Nicolò to turn around and calm his nerves. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nonetheless, Eleonora rides steady and true, following close behind Miss Freeman, who herself rides with some great skill. Nicolò wonders vaguely how old she must be, and then he is coming around the bend to where a small crowd is starting to gather, and there is no more room in his head for wonder.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Slow down!” Dr. al-Kaysani commands, and despite his initial trepidation is off Eleonora’s back before she even comes to a stand-still. Miss Freeman—who Nicolò now notices to be the very subject of Dr. al-Kaysani’s unfinished portrait—takes Eleonora’s reins from his hand.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He might need some assistance,” she clarifies, with a nod of her head towards the doctor. “I will take care of the horses.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò nods his thanks hurriedly and follows Dr. al-Kaysani to the middle of the crowd, which is being held back by a woman and a man, both unconcerned with the force necessary to hold them back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Doctor,” the man turns around—only Nicolò realises that it is no man at all, but rather a tall woman in trousers. Furthermore, she must be another of the travelling vampires Dr. al-Kaysani spoke of. He takes another look at the woman next to her; sure enough, she too has the elegant quality of one far beyond her years. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No need,” the doctor waves her words away. “Nile has told me all she could.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He is already dropping to his knees next to the victim, dress soaked with blood and tears.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hello, my dear. What do they call you, then?” His tone is soft, like Nicolò has never heard before.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Marie,” the child responds, voice wrecked from crying. “It hurts.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is nice to meet you, Marie,” Dr. al-Kaysani says, very kindly. “My name is Dr. al-Kaysani. I’m going to try to make it better, will you let me have a look at you?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The girl starts to reply, before a man breaks free from the women’s hold, running towards Dr. al-Kaysani with a vicious shout of fury.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t touch her!” He yells, hand coming up to strike the doctor. “You consort with devils! I will not let you take this child and let her become a meal to the vampires of this city!"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò catches his fist before it can make contact with Dr. al-Kaysani’s cheek.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lay a finger on him,” he says, very coldly. “And I will break it. My Family grants protection to those who live in our territory but do not misunderstand; they will turn a blind eye if I decide to withdraw that very protection.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is not true, but the man clearly does not know this. Very few people know the kindness of Gauvain of France, even those who live within the bounds of his territory. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Conflict wars on the man’s face, but cowardice wins. He pulls his hand back from Nicolò’s fingers sharply, spitting at his feet. “Even now they come to prey upon the weak,” he says. “The people of this city will not forget this.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By then, Miss Freeman is already leading him away by the arm, and Nicolò is glad for the relative obscurity of knowing how to spot one such as himself—the man clearly does not know that Miss Freeman is part of that very evil he deems so unforgettable. If the situation were any different, Nicolò would roll his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Instead, he looks back down at the doctor and his patient. Two sets of shrewd eyes watch him, although neither of them show fright. Something unknowable passes between Dr. al-Kaysani and himself, hot and heavy and almost akin to understanding; in any case, the doctor turns back before Nicolò is able to think overmuch on it. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Marie,” Dr. al-Kaysani says, tone still soft and warm. “This is my friend Mr. di Genova. Did you hear what he said? His Family offers protection to those who live here. Will you let him hold your hand while I see what I can do? It might hurt, but don’t worry, Mr. di Genova will protect you from the pain.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She nods, holding out her hand. It is very small in Nicolò’s palm as he kneels beside her. He watches the doctor lift the torn part of Marie’s dress, finding a wound the length of one of his fingers. Marie clearly sees this as well, as she squeezes Nicolò’s hand and inhales sharply.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s alright,” Nicolò says to her. He searches for something to say, some way to distract her. “Marie, do you like art?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Marie nods, eyes fixed on Nicolò now. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you know what we were doing, before we came here?” He waits until Marie shakes her head before continuing. “Dr. al-Kaysani was taking my portrait. Have you ever had your portrait taken before?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Again he waits for the shake of her head. Dr. al-Kaysani has started wiping away the blood and mud from her wound but she hasn’t noticed. “It requires a lot of sitting still.” He wrinkles his nose. “Are you good at that?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor beckons someone from the crowd and bids them to fetch his colleague, Dr. Copley, but Nicolò pays it no mind, engaging Marie throughout the whole thing. He considers it a victory when Dr. Copley arrives with a stretcher and she refuses to let go of his hand.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Marie,” Nicolò says gently and gestures to the set of women who have been guarding them, each holding onto an end of the stretcher. “These women will take good care of you, but you have to be brave for me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She nods her little head. “Will the doctor take my portrait, if I’m brave?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò smiles down at her, smoothing the hair from her face. “I’m sure he would be honoured.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Marie smiles a very weak smile, but a smile nonetheless, and releases Nicolò’s hand. He watches her get carried down the street and round the corner, until he can no longer see her. The crowd has dispersed by now, only a few meandering strangers are left beneath the dark of night.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A hand slips into his own where Marie’s fingers had clenched around his only seconds earlier. He squeezes Dr. al-Kaysani’s hand.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ve been holding out on me. I did not know you were so adept at keeping calm in a stressful situation.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor snorts, tired but happy. “I was just about to say the same thing, albeit about your manner with children.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They smile at each other, still holding hands. Rain starts to fall, joining the sheen of sweat on the doctor’s forehead.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come,” he says, pulling Nicolò along by their linked hands. “Let’s fetch the horses.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time they arrive back at the Family house, Nicolò and the doctor have been cleaned by the rain, and then been made dirty again by the mud beneath their feet. They did not talk much on the walk, Nicolò being caged in by a horse on either side and Dr. al-Kaysani keeping carefully outside of that cage. Nicolò had assumed the doctor would only accompany him for the time it would take to fetch his sketches, but as Nicolò takes off his wet cloak to dry by the door, Dr. al-Kaysani follows his lead.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you mind very terribly if I imposed on you some more?” He asks with a small smile. Then he gestures to himself. “I do believe a bath would be in order, no matter how little you care about my sweat on your tongue. And don’t say you will feed yourself—I will not leave before I see you fed once more."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A slow smile spreads over Nicolò’s features. “Alright.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As Dr. al-Kaysani takes the time to clean himself, Nicolò returns to the sitting room to fetch his sketchbook. Having haphazardly left it earlier, it still lies open to the sketches of himself, and Nicolò traces his finger along the lines reverently. The doctor has captured his eyes, wet in anger as he recounted his past, and it takes his breath away. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carefully, so as not to lose any of the loose papers stuck between the pages of the sketchbook, Nicolò flips the page. Dr. al-Kaysani must be very quick with the pencil, considering the amount of sketches he has done of Nicolò. There are several pages filled with himself, details as well as many different angles of his face. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò closes the sketchbook when he reaches the end of the drawings of himself, tucking the sketchbook under his arm as he gathers the rest of Dr. al-Kaysani’s supplies. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he enters his room once more, it smells of the soap he had given the doctor. Before he can wonder at the doctor’s scent mixing with his own soap, he hears his voice.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you returned?” Dr. al-Kaysani calls out from the washroom, where he has—God have mercy on Nicolò’s immortal soul—left the door open just a crack. “You might have said you left. I have been having a conversation with myself for far longer than I’d like to admit.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s mirth in his voice, and a small splash of movement in the water. Nicolò is at a veritable loss for words.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” he croaks. “Just… fetching your sketchbook.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ever the gentleman!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What were you saying?” Nicolò asks, busying himself with pulling invisible creases from his bed linen. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“When?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Before I came back.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” He laughs. “Just wondering what you thought of the others.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò needn’t ask who he means. “Regretfully, I did not get much of a chance to form any opinion.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No I suppose not. You will only have to come meet them properly some day.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò keeps his silence.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mr. di Genova?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did I say something wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Unsure of how to phrase the delicate intricacies of vampire territory, Nicolò says nothing. To his great amusement, Dr. al-Kaysani groans to more splashing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I did say something wrong,” he bemoans, muffled by, presumably, his hands over his face. “I am sorry, we will speak no more of it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quiet your self-pity!” Nicolò grins. He can’t help it, buoyed by Dr. al-Kaysani’s easy trust and the adrenaline of Marie’s safety after her accident. “No, I would like to meet them. Only, not here. Gauvain is quite traditional-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Old, you mean.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just so! Gauvain is very old, and territorial. He was only disconcerted at Miss Freeman’s sudden appearance.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s more sound from the washroom, seemingly the doctor getting out of the tub. He is still squeezing the water from his hair as he joins Nicolò in his bedroom. Wearing only his breeches.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” Dr. al-Kaysani says, unaware or uncaring of Nicolò’s eyes on his legs. “I will tell her to send someone else, next time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s quite alright,” Nicolò says mindlessly. He is too busy contemplating the wonder of Dr. al-Kaysani’s delicate ankles to see the smile on his face—as if he has just won something.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His gaze is fixed on those legs as they come up to rest right in front of him. Then Dr. al-Kaysani is using his towel to dry the residual raindrops from Nicolò’s own hair, and Nicolò knows that if he had not been so far out from a meal, his face would be as red as the doctor’s mouth.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With great care Dr. al-Kaysani runs his hands through Nicolò’s hair, untangling knots with his fingers. He towers over Nicolò where Nicolò is still seated on the bed, eyes level with Dr. al-Kaysani’s midriff. His eyes trail up towards his throat, where the barest mark is still visible.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why do you insist on feeding me?” Nicolò asks before he can think better of it. “Surely you have enough data for your research now?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His cheeks darken attractively. “It is not… an entirely unpleasant situation, for me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò raises an eyebrow. The doctor makes a despairing noise in the back of his throat.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Surely you won’t make me spell it out for you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” Nicolò’s second eyebrow joins the first in surprise. “Like… that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani drops his forehead to the top of Nicolò’s head, groaning. There is laughter in his voice when he pulls away.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, like that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well… don’t let me keep you from your pleasure, then.” He stands, holding out his hand. The doctor lets Nicolò lead him towards the mirror, combing his hair to one side of his neck with his fingers to bare the other side more completely.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was thinking,” the doctor starts. He bites the inside of his cheek as if he hadn’t intended to speak. Nicolò can hear his heart thundering. “No, never mind.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò pulls back, hands still on the doctor’s shoulders. “Be brave, Dr. al-Kaysani.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His eyes snap to meet Nicolò’s in the mirror. Nicolò vaguely ponders the way everything feels heightened like this, being able to see Dr. al-Kaysani’s expressions as well as his own. Currently the doctor is sporting one of such intent decision that it brings Nicolò pause. He is just about to apologise, to let the doctor keep his secrets, when he speaks again.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was thinking about how, if you would like, I could help you… after the feeding, as well.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò stares. He gapes, opening and closing his mouth as if that will make the words come. In however much he thought of this, never once did he consider his hopes and wishes to come true in such a fashion.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I…” he says. “I do not misunderstand your meaning?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò’s answer comes with Dr. al-Kaysani pressing his back against Nicolò’s chest, shuffling until Nicolò’s pelvis rests against his hips. “I do not believe you do.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò’s eyes shut on a sharp exhale. “You do not know what you do to me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor slides Nicolò’s hands from his shoulders to rest on his waist. Absently, Nicolò caresses the soft skin above his breeches, feeling the line of the doctor’s Adonis belt where it dips down, leading further towards his groin. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell me later. Please let me feel you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò would never deny such a polite request. Pressed against Dr. al-Kaysani from his shoulders to his knees, he brushes his lips in a gentle kiss along the doctor’s shoulder, tightening his arms around him. He kisses over the mark of his own teeth, then up further behind his ear. Nicolò brings his hand to rest over the doctor’s heart, feeling that which his ears already knew; his heart is racing. Hammering and hurtling through an intricate dance beneath Nicolò’s fingers—missing every step.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You mustn’t tease me so,” Dr. al-Kaysani whispers, breathless. “Please.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tease?” Nicolò pulls back. “Me? When you left the door to the washroom open, letting me hear how the water brushed along your bare skin?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The doctor’s mouth pulls upwards. “It was an invitation.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah,” Nicolò scrapes his fangs over sensitive skin. “You forget I need verbal approval.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then he bites down, and the retort already on Dr. al-Kaysani’s lips is lost to a sound quite unlike anything Nicolò has heard him make before. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He drinks quickly, and it’s over before he can process too much of it. Not that he did not enjoy the slow warmth filling him tip to toe, only that he was too aware of the doctor’s body against his own, his hand gripping onto Nicolò’s hip like he wanted to put it elsewhere but was waiting for permission. As soon as Nicolò regains even just a small amount of regular brain function he lets his hand lower into Dr. al-Kaysani’s breeches, beneath his drawers to rest just the tips of his fingers in the curls he finds there.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. al-Kaysani’s fingers flex and his neck muscles twist beneath Nicolò’s teeth until his cheek is resting against the top of Nicolò’s head. So fully turned in towards Nicolò it is impossible to miss his words.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nicolò,” he says, Nicolò’s name like a supplication on his tongue. “Touch me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò makes a broken sound against the doctor’s throat, hand moving lower and lower even as the flow of blood in his mouth lessens.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He wrenches his mouth free as his fist closes around the doctor, hot and hard in his grasp. He presses red, wet kisses against his jaw, only barely visible against the dark hair of his beard. He kisses Dr. al-Kaysani high on his cheekbone just to see it glitter in the warm light.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dr. al-Kaysani,” Nicolò says. “Tell me how you like it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He laughs, ragged as if he can’t quite keep his attention on the act of laughing. “When you have your hand on my cock,” he says. “You might call me Yusuf.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò groans his name into his neck, running his fingers very gently along the length of him beneath his breeches. “Let me see you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf nods, hands knocking against Nicolò’s for the honour of undoing his breeches. He laughs, catching Nicolò’s free hand with both of his own. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Let me,” Nicolò says, hand tightening around Yusuf’s. Yusuf does not release his hand quite yet, bringing it up to his lips first.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf’s hips press back into him, against his erection through all those layers of fabric. His fingers fumble on Yusuf’s buttons, but through sheer force of will he gets them undone. Blessedly, Yusuf had not re-buttoned his breeches by his knees after his bath and they fall to the floor with ease.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Only in his drawers now, the ridge of him visible through the fabric. Yusuf undoes the laces, impatient with Nicolò’s preoccupation of choosing instead to stare at him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s indecent,” Nicolò says, watching Yusuf’s cock bounce with the motion of his body. “To see you like this.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“As opposed to seeing me bare?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just so.” He runs his hand up the inside of Yusuf’s thighs, still covered by his drawers. “The imagination runs wild.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf hesitates, teasing. “Should I leave them on?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t you dare.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf guides his drawers down his legs, achingly slowly. He bends over for the last part, with as a result hiding himself from Nicolò’s view—not that Nicolò cares much, as it equally serves to push the curve of his backside further into Nicolò. He gasps with it, eyes fluttering closed momentarily.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re so beautiful when you blush.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò opens his eyes, meeting Yusuf’s in the mirror. He can see himself, flushed and sweating, mouth still wet with Yusuf’s blood.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then his gaze sweeps lower, to where Yusuf is dark and heavy against his leg. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Does it meet expectations?” His voice is teasing and light, but Nicolò can hear the very real question in it. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It exceeds,” Nicolò breathes, watching his own hand wrap around it again. They make quite the picture, Nicolò fully dressed, Yusuf standing in the pool of his own clothing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell me now,” Yusuf’s voice is strained in his ear. “What it is that I do to you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His hips roll, driving his cock further into Nicolò’s hand. Nicolò watches it peek from his fist, mouth dry.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Everything,” he starts moving his hand. “You do everything to me, Yusuf.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf moans, high and strangled in his throat. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“From the moment I saw you I thought you to be the most handsome creature I had ever seen. Dressed so finely, with such a relaxed quality to you—as if you had just been thoroughly fucked and were begging me to see, flaunting it. And then you were brilliant, as if it wasn’t enough that you were beautiful, and all i wanted to do was get on my knees and do whatever it might take to make you <em>stay</em>.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf swears under his breath, fingers pressing into the bruise from Nicolò’s mouth while his other hand is a vice-like grip on Nicolò’s forearm—not moving the hand around his cock, just clinging on as if for dear life. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It was torture when you asked to bathe in my washroom.” Nicolò spreads one of Yusuf’s thighs wide, forcing him onto tiptoes, muscles flexed with it. He caresses the artery there, feeling the blood pulse beneath his thumb. “To know you were in there, in all your graceful splendour.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf’s chin falls to his chest then, a weak laugh coming from him. “Splendour?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yusuf,” Nicolò hisses. “<em>Yes</em>.” He releases Yusuf’s thigh—although he keeps it in the same position Nicolò put it in—forcing his chin up again. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would that you could see yourself as I do,” he says, taking him in in his entirety. “You are exquisite.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His head falls backward onto Nicolò’s shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell me again,” he whispers—the hand on his forearm moving southward, wrapping around Nicolò’s hand to set the pace. His stomach tightens, his body trembling with it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell you what? That you were finely crafted, and that all the artists of my time would hold you in the greatest esteem and beg for you to be immortalised in marble and gold? I don’t claim to know much, but I assure you; you are as beautiful as the sun.” With a final bite of Nicolò’s blunt teeth, he brings Yusuf to completion.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò works Yusuf through it, until the grip on his hand lessens and Yusuf’s breathing starts evening somewhat. His eyes are still closed, blush very high on his cheeks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The tip of Yusuf’s thumb starts rubbing small circles over Nicolò’s knuckle. He swallows, a loud click against the silence of the room. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I believe I must apologise,” he says, then.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“For what?” Nicolò asks, taken aback. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have been quite selfish.” He opens one eye, fixing it on Nicolò. “Although I quite believe I can make it worth your while.” He lifts Nicolò’s hand to his mouth again although not for a kiss this time.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His tongue is warm over Nicolò’s palm, cleaning himself from Nicolò’s skin. He takes Nicolò’s fingers into his mouth and sucks, moaning as if Nicolò is some dessert—then laughs when Nicolò’s hips buck forward without his permission.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are cruel.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.” He uses Nicolò’s wet fingers to wipe the blood from his cheek. “But I will make it up to you if you go lie on the bed.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And if I don’t, you will leave me hard and aching?” Nicolò asks, knowing he would not.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf turns in his arms and nods gravely. “Of course. I am, after all, a cruel man.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò laughs, leaning forward for a kiss. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To his great dismay, Yusuf turns his head, the kiss landing instead in Yusuf’s beard. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò does not believe himself to be an overly dramatic man, and yet in all his years he cannot remember a rejection ever hurting quite so much. Perhaps if Yusuf were less—less gentle and kind, less smart, less easy to love—but Nicolò has only known him very briefly and felt the world soften just for his presence in it. There is no use in hypotheticals; gracious Yusuf deserves someone whom he can love with all his heart, and Nicolò has been deemed unworthy. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t get much more of a chance to ponder the shattering of his own heart, already being pushed backwards until his legs hit the bed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you-” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. He’s being selfish, Nicolò knows, to take what Yusuf had so kindly offered him—company, sex—and turn it into some grand declaration of what it was not. Nevertheless, he is glad for the momentary distraction of unbuttoning his shirt; that way Yusuf won’t see the pained grimace on his face, the unbearable loneliness in his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Perhaps he takes slightly longer to undress than he would have, had Yusuf not declined his kiss so.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he lies back, feeling vulnerable and <em>bared</em> to Yusuf in more ways than one, Yusuf inhales sharply.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Meet expectations?” Nicolò says weakly, not looking at him. Only when Yusuf’s warm hand touches his chest does Nicolò realise Yusuf’s reaction was not for the emotions he finds hard to hide.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” he says. Yusuf’s fingers trace around the edge of the scar tissue, uncertain. “You can touch it, if you like.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He places the tip of his index finger over the circular scar at the centre, obscuring it from view.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can you feel it?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò shakes his head. “Not really.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf sweeps his finger over it in the shape of a heart. Nicolò smiles, soft and sad. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can feel it. Your heartbeat, I mean.” He hesitates, debating his own words. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m glad it’s there,” he says, then, all bold sincerity. “I’m glad <em>you’re</em> here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then Yusuf kisses the scar tissue over Nicolò’s heart, once, twice—just in case. Nicolò closes his eyes to keep himself from taking it as a confession.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought you weren’t a cruel man,” he says, just to have something to say. “Wouldn’t leave me aching.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf’s laughter sends warm breath across his skin and Nicolò shivers with it. He doesn’t get the cheeky retaliation he expected, only more kisses across his chest—moving ever downward.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After, when Nicolò’s breathing is still laboured and Yusuf is still kissing the insides of his thighs, Yusuf asks, “May I stay? Only, I know you won’t sleep—that your schedule is so different from mine, but,” he yawns, snuggling closer. “I won’t disturb you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feeling warm and sated, and quite miserable with Yusuf’s entirely unattainable love, Nicolò watches the rise and fall of his chest until the candles sputter and die—and then still, by only the light of the moon.</span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò wakes alone. This is no surprise—even had Yusuf not made his intentions clear, Nicolò does not keep the schedule of mortal men with patients to take care of, and often sleeps when the sun is highest, waking for the end of the day and the beginning of the night.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He is, however, unable to judge the lateness of the hour. The curtain, left open during the events of yesterday night, has been drawn to keep the sun from disturbing Nicolò. Nicolò's heart gives a pitiful lurch in his chest and he turns his head further into the pillow; it still smells of Yusuf.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before he can decide to waste away the rest of his waking hours bleeding his heart out for himself—he’s been there, it is quite unpleasant—the door to his room slams open.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is he gone?” Sébastien asks, and Nicolò should have realised it would be his brother if his presence was not accompanied by something so simple as a <em>knock</em>. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Who?” Nicolò asks into Yusuf’s pillow, just to be difficult.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whoever—I don’t care, actually.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò raises his head slightly at that. He is no longer morally opposed to Nicolò's choice of bed partners, but Sébastien is young enough that any of his siblings’ escapades titillates him greatly. Sébastien looks terrible, pale as if he has not slept in quite some time, wringing his hands. Ensuring he is covered from the waist down, Nicolò sits up to look at him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I- Celeste said to come ask you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ask me what?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks pained, mouth twisting wryly. “For… I am in need,” he starts over, reciting words clearly previously rehearsed. “Of someone who will accompany me to the graveyard. And Celeste said to ask you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A sobering thought. Nicolò nods, running his hand through his hair. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allow me to…” he gestures at himself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sébastien nods, short and decisive. He turns to leave, then thinks better of it. “Thank you, Nico.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When the door slams behind his brother, Nicolò drags his hands over his face. Nicolò does not envy his brother his grief, but still it is difficult, Nicolò thinks, to live to be his own age and have nobody to mourn. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The last rays of sunlight in the clear blue of the sky cause some sluggishness on the walk towards the graveyard. Even recently fed, Nicolò's steps falter and stumble. It’s bitter cold, and the whole situation is as miserable as feels appropriate.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò feels slightly rotten for being so preoccupied lately as not to have noticed Sébastien’s birthday—the day his family passed away so terribly. It had been last week, and truly Nicolò should have realised by the lack of music in the house, the abundance of empty bottles.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They don’t speak while they walk. Every so often Sébastien’s breath will hitch as if he is about to say something but loses his courage as the first words bubble up. Nicolò does not blame him—for all that they are brothers, Sébastien is more of a stranger to him than Celeste or Gauvain have ever been.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When they reach the church, Sébastien hesitates.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will go alone,” he says, voice gravelly and full of emotion. “Come find me if…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò nods, sparing him the indignity of fumbling with his words. “I will. Where should I look for you?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sébastien’s jaw sets. “I can’t face my wife if I visit the boys first. You remember where they are… Where they rest?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò nods; he had been there when they were buried. Through circumstance and Sébastien’s boundless misfortune, mother and sons were not buried close to one another.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò reaches out to squeeze Sébastien’s shoulder. Sébastien looks away from Nicolò but his hand comes to rest over his own, so Nicolò figures it is alright.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Take your time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò sits on the bench in front of the gates, looking out over the headstones of the people of his territory. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò is old enough that there must be many buried here who lived while Nicolò and his Family watched over them—although he is certain that he would not recognise a single name. He comes to the uncomfortable realisation that perhaps he has not changed as much as he thought, from when he still lived in Italy. He resolves to do better, the sort of resolve that requires a lot of lying to oneself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Knowing people requires speaking with them, requires being seen as something other than what Nicolò is. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He closes his eyes and wonders what Yusuf is doing now. It is not so late yet that he would be asleep, perhaps winding down for the evening with a book or his brushes and the unfinished portrait of the young woman. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò entertains the notion that he might deviate from the route home, take a different street or turn and knock on Yusuf’s door—catching him off guard, catching him for a kiss. The fantasy is bittersweet.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò sighs, breath fogging the air. The sun has truly set, now, and the stars are a familiar sight above him. He feels old, suddenly. Old and young at the same time; as if he has not been afforded the capacity for wisdom which comes with age. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Perhaps when he gets back Gauvain will have something for Nicolò to busy himself with. Perhaps Nicolò should grit his teeth and stop living so nocturnally, even if it is what feels most comfortable.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After an hour, he gets up and stretches, looking back at the graveyard. The bells of the church mark the lateness of the hour and loathe as he is to disturb Sébastien’s mourning, they should be heading back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He finds him with the boys, although he is far quieter than Nicolò would have expected. He does not usually accompany Sébastien on visits to the graves of his family, but when he has it has been weeping and screaming—this is far worse. Desolate silence, red rimmed eyes staring over the final resting place of his children.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s time to go.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sébastien nods but doesn’t get up. He’s all curled in on himself, on his knees with his hands folded in his lap.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you know how long it has been?” Sébastien’s voice rasps, as if the screaming and weeping had come earlier—or as if they have not yet come at all, burning his throat as he tries to keep them down.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò says nothing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Long enough that they would probably have died by now either way. I have had the absolute pleasure-” his voice breaks somewhat, “the absolute <em>pleasure</em> of outliving my children twice.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come on,” Nicolò grips Sébastien’s shoulder. “Celeste will have something comforting waiting for us, by now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nico,” Sébastien presses his forehead to his clasped hands, speaking raggedly into his own lap. “Promise me. Life is short, so short—even ours. Promise me it’s okay to be happy. That there are new joys to be discovered and that one can <em>hold onto them</em>.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Séba.” Nicolò sinks to his knees, folding his brother into a hug. He doesn’t promise anything right then, doesn’t know how to. But he holds Sébastien and lets that be enough, for now. </span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you comfortable?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Will you stop asking if I tell you I’m not?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf laughs. “I apologise. I just… don’t know why I asked for this.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s fine. I’ve told you already, Celeste goes out in daylight all the time—it doesn’t harm us.” Nicolò turns his face up slightly more towards the early morning sun. It isn’t very warm by the window, but he enjoys the way the light makes him feel. He’ll get lethargic and sleepy later, he knows, but nothing much is expected of him for now. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I won’t insult you by asking once more. But you must tell me when you would like to return home.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò smiles at him, wondering whether he can tell Yusuf that he would like to never return home again. It is a strange balance, knowing that there is room to touch Yusuf as much as he pleases, without being able to tell him what is in his heart.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf goes back to mixing colours on his palette. Nicolò finds it a joy to watch him work, the concentrated look on his face and the easy way he handles his tools. He picks the right brushes with great care and lays the first stroke, having already prepared his canvas beforehand. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But, still... Tell me again why you asked this of me? Not the daylight, but generally?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf hums, not looking away from his work. “I suppose it all ties together, no? The project and portraits.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He casts a shrewd eye back at Nicolò's  form, wiping at his canvas with a cloth. “Beyond your beauty, of course.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò ducks his head as he laughs, feeling the warmth of Yusuf’s words as if they were the sun on his skin. He turns to the window to hide his smile. “Be serious.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s your humanity, Nicolò.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò looks back again, Yusuf’s gaze trained on him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“All of it; the research and now this… it’s to show people like that man who was so terrified of you that there is nothing to fear.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh.” Nicolò can feel his heart thumping against his ribs. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to say to that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf smiles, kindly and somewhat cheekily. “Have I left you speechless? Robbed you of your words and breath?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Surely it is not a novel experience.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf’s smile turns sweeter, eyes crinkling in delighted pleasure. He purses his lips and turns back to his paints, but every line of his body speaks of his preening under Nicolò's  gaze. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He rubs at the canvas again, looking between it and Nicolò. Then he tilts his head, considering.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Might I paint your scar?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò looks at him, perplexed. “I… alright. I do not see why not.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lovely. If you would just remove your waistcoat and shirt.” His tone drops salaciously. “Unless you need help with that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf winks. Nicolò feels his heart drop.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf looks taken aback. Nicolò feels lousy. He starts on his buttons, eyes intent on his own body.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, I would just… ask that some things are kept to my bedroom.” He hates himself as he says it, for denying himself Yusuf’s company and equally for being so weak as not to deny himself that company in its entirety. He would keep this, Yusuf’s touch and his words, even if it is not fair to Yusuf.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He would keep it, but contained. Would keep the words in his chest—keep the sex to the feeding, like a secret.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I…” Yusuf sounds somewhat lost. Nicolò does not look up at him. “I apologise. I suppose we should have… discussed things.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò nods, smiles tightly. “Discussed expectations, yes. Quite so.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf is frowning, his mouth set in an unhappy line. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s alright,” Nicolò assures him. “I am not offended.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf smiles back at him. Nothing like his usual smiles but tight and hard, although Nicolò figures it’s alright. He does not wish to hurt Yusuf; and yet small hurts are better than big ones, and Yusuf will survive this rejection.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They sit in uncomfortable silence while Yusuf mixes more paint. Nicolò feels as if he should say something, but cannot imagine what would make this moment lighter. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He turns back to the window, looking over the street outside. The city is bustling so early in the day; people getting ready for the work that needs to be done, retrieving groceries from the market or hurrying about to get to the next task that needs doing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A terrible loneliness overcomes Nicolò then. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s so different, in the daylight.” He says it without truly meaning to, softly, as if to himself. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf hums in agreement. “Do you miss it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quite… and no, I do not.” He looks back to face Yusuf, as if searching for some answer in the other man’s face. “It was not something I ever truly thought about, when I was alive. It’s as if there is nothing for me <em>to</em> miss.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I never—I hope you won’t find me rude to say this, but when I am with you I find it hard to remember how old you are.” Yusuf carefully avoids Nicolò's  gaze. “You must think me young and ignorant.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not ignorant.” Nicolò swallows. “Never ignorant—you are the first person to take an interest in me since… for a long time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf laughs, wetly. “It is different in the daylight, isn’t it? To say things out loud.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s terrible.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf catches Nicolò's  eye and they smile. The tension eases from Yusuf’s chest, from Nicolò's  shoulders. Very tentatively, across the gap between them that stretches too far for Yusuf to bridge by himself, Yusuf reaches out. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Nicolò, in gentle forgiveness of the kind that needs no words for understanding, puts his own hand in Yusuf’s open palm.</span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Things are alright for a while.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That’s what Nicolò tells himself—that’s the lie Nicolò forces himself to believe. He still pines for Yusuf but they spend so much of their time together, clothed or not, and Nicolò can pretend for a few hours. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf’s research is almost at a point where he can call it finished, and he works with a vigour to get the words on the page. He’s stressed, tired. He doesn’t sleep very well anymore, wakes twice a night when Nicolò is still awake, and however many other times during the time their sleep overlaps.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s an uncomfortable tension to it, lately, that Nicolò is trying to ignore.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nonetheless, he refuses to let Yusuf work himself to the bone. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you quite sure you’re alright?” Nicolò feels the need to ask once more, even in the face of Yusuf’s exasperation. Yusuf being short with him does not hurt less for Nicolò’s understanding of said shortness. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, Nicolò, I am fine. Only tired, as I have already explained.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He removes his shirt with slightly more force than strictly necessary, taking the cloth from Nicolò’s hand. Perfunctorily cleaned, he bares his throat with no pomp and even less ceremony, irritation clear in every line of his body.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My apologies.” Nicolò stares at the line of Yusuf’s neck; the wound that graces it far deeper than Nicolò is used to. He wants to ask, about the unhealed wound and about what Yusuf plans to do later—if he will stay the night or return home to work on his manuscript.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But Nicolò decides the wisest course of action in both cases is not to do so, as he would like to keep the peace by not mentioning the cursed m-word. Meekly, and feeling quite annoyed himself at his own meekness, he puts his teeth over the too-dark mark and bites down.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The effect is instant on both of them. Yusuf’s sigh, the sudden weight of his sagging comfortably against Nicolò, head thrown onto Nicolò’s shoulder. He tastes as wonderful as always, warm and rich in Nicolò’s mouth, and Nicolò quite loses himself to the sensation of it. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His name in Yusuf’s gentle voice comes to him as if through water, ears buzzing only with the sound of his heart. It is, however, the only warning he gets before Yusuf’s knees give out and he falls heavily back into Nicolò’s arms.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò, blessedly, is aware enough to tighten his grip around Yusuf’s chest before he crumples to the floor completely. In his alarm, he forgets himself—crying out with far too much emotion.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yusuf? Yusuf!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m alright,” Yusuf says, feebly. “I’m alright—give me a second.” He gets his feet back underneath him and settles heavily with his back against the bed. He looks pale and is still bleeding profusely at the throat, a waterfall of blood down his front.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What happened?” Nicolò’s hands hover just above the other man, wanting to reach out and make sure he’s still intact but unsure of his permission to do so.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf averts his gaze as if in shame.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It isn’t your fault.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Like hell. I believe in this case it is very much the fault of the one with his teeth in you, mere minutes ago.” Panic makes him rude, but Nicolò is not inclined to care very much.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, it isn’t. I… You remember Andromache, from the day of the accident?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What- yes, sure, I remember her.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She’s… a vampire. I wanted—needed—to ensure my results were sound.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò’s jaw clenches shut tightly, understanding dawning. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You should have told me,” he says, icily, “that you were suffering from blood-fatigue. Oh, my apologies; you did not know that was something that could happen to you, preferring instead to feed two vampires without asking either if such a course of action was <em>wise</em>.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A muscle in Yusuf’s jaw jumps, angrily. “I am not a child.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No! You are something much worse!” Nicolò gets to his feet and starts pacing. “You are an adult, a <em>mortal</em> adult, with no one to tell you when you are being completely, utterly, <em>insufferably</em> stupid.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, now-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I could have hurt you!” Nicolò hisses. “No, I <em>did</em> hurt you! Or did you forget you were not the only active party here?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I trust you,” Yusuf protests quietly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, clearly that was your mistake.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf’s jaw clenches. He touches his throat, noticing the blood as if for the first time. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hand me the cloth.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò does so, with as much venom and malice as he can muster. “Why?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Because,” Yusuf says with a flourish that is far weaker than it should be. “I am bleeding.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t be funny with me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf clenches his jaw again, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. “Because I need this as much as you do. Because you don’t touch me anymore, unless we are in this room together—because you still call me doctor and because I’m not even certain you are aware that you are doing it!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His tone takes on a slightly hysterical, panicked edge. He sounds as if he is confessing something, although Nicolò cannot imagine what that might be.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do not understand even then why you would risk yourself so for… what? A hand on your cock, an evening of company?” Nicolò realises his hands are starting to dig through his own hair, and he pulls them down quickly. “We have brothels in this city; even ones for—” he searches for words, unsure of whether to say <em>men</em> or <em>vampires</em>. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I assure you,” is what he settles on, “you might find one that caters to your tastes.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I assure you I would not—the only company I desire is standing right here in front of me, yelling the house down.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But why? Surely-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Because I love you, you stubborn man!” Yusuf throws his hands up. “Beyond measure or reason—against all my better judgements, I love you!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò falls silent. He stares at Yusuf, on his feet now, looking resplendent even covered in blood and weighed down by the last few sleepless weeks. Nicolò feels his heart threatening to choke him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But… you haven’t kissed me yet,” he says very weakly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh for-” Yusuf kisses him with such a fierce heat that it takes Nicolò a moment to catch up. Only one moment, however, before he catches Yusuf’s cheeks between his palms.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He bites Yusuf’s lips and sucks his tongue, becoming greedier with every noise it pulls from Yusuf’s throat. It goes on for longer than Nicolò would have expected—not nearly long enough. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Yusuf pulls back, eyes full of anger, his mouth is red and wet with his own blood. Realisation hits Nicolò, unkindly, like a hammer to the head.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh.” Nicolò reaches out to touch Yusuf’s lips but he turns away from him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, ‘<em>oh</em>’.” Yusuf wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, making it much worse. “Unlike you, I do not enjoy the taste of blood in my mouth. And that you would never even think that you might be… special-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know quite well that I am special,” Nicolò bites out, finding some of his earlier anger. “The only male vampire in your research, yes, I am unique-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“To me! Special to me!” Yusuf yells, looking desperate—looking as if he wants nothing more than to shake Nicolò until he wakes up from this nightmare. Whether that nightmare is Yusuf’s or Nicolò’s, Nicolò does not know. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a long, stretching silence. Yusuf looks at Nicolò despairingly and Nicolò returns his gaze, unable to find the words that will fix this. The silence, the tension between them, snaps with the changing of Yusuf’s face. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His expression hardens and his mouth is a stubborn line even as his cheeks colour fiercely. He grabs his shirt, not looking back at Nicolò.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry.” He speaks it into the empty space in front of him, back turned. He’s quieter now, tone serious. “I don’t know why I said that. Rather, I don’t know why I expected…” he falters. His curls bounce when he shakes his head. “But no matter.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He turns back to Nicolò with a deep inhale of breath, meeting his gaze with all the reckless courage Nicolò has ever seen him muster.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mr. di Genova,” Yusuf says and although Nicolò had known it coming, he finds himself utterly lacking in the ability to accept it. “I quite believe we are done here. If ever there was a bridge more well and truly burned, well…” he splays his hands out in front of him. He bites the inside of his cheek. He shakes his head, eyes on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you, for all that you have done for the project.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Nicolò, meek, reticent, <em>cowardly</em> Nicolò, watches Yusuf al-Kaysani flee half-dressed from his bedroom, quite unable to stop the feeling as if he has very briefly held the best thing in all his years, and is watching it slip through his fingers like water.</span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re an idiot.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò looks up from his book, which he has been staring at for a stubborn age. “And a good morning to you as well, Sébastien.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No—I mean it. There’s absolutely nothing between your ears.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò’s eyebrows raise and he gapes. “Alright?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, alright.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sébastien sits down heavily across from him, rubbing at his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wasn’t going to say anything, but that was a week ago and you’ve been moping unbelievably.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò sits up, shoving aside his book without a care for what page he may be on. “Sébastien, are you planning on revealing what you’re talking about, or would you like me to leave so you might monologue?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh sit down. You remember my room is below yours, no? Which—well, we’ll discuss it later, but the point is that I can <em>hear</em> you. When you yell, or when someone screams that they are in love with you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò’s open mouth snaps shut. He frowns, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Christ, you are annoying.” Sébastien leans forward. “Alright, fine. None of my business how you choose to torture yourself—we’ve all been there. But my God, man, you’ve been making it everyone’s problem.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò opens his mouth to protest but Sébastien waves his hand. “Don’t argue—go ask Celeste later if you’re so sure you’ve been hiding it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine. My feelings notwithstanding,” Nicolò bites out. “I will gracefully endeavour to keep my <em>moping</em> to myself. Now, if you’ll quite excuse me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He gets up, primly smoothing down the creases in his breeches, in half a mind to find Celeste and tell her that his love-life is neither her or Sébastien’s business. He’s sure his ears are tinged red, too, which makes the whole thing both disconcerting and mortifying.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nico.” Sébastien slides down in his chair, hooking a foot around Nicolò’s ankle to keep him from leaving. “As your elder-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You most certainly are not-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“As your elder!” Sébastien repeats, louder this time. “I am asking you this once; what exactly did you think I was trying to tell you when… all those weeks ago.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“When?” Nicolò bites out just to be mean and difficult, then regrets it. “No, I’m sorry—I know when.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sébastien looks at him expectantly. Nicolò shakes his head at him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not sure what you’re expecting of me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His brother sighs as if he truly is older and wiser than Nicolò. It makes Nicolò want to break something. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Life is short.” He says it slowly, the way one speaks to a child. “It’s short. None of us are blessed easily with love; we aren’t owed that by the universe, but it happens anyway. If you have something—someone—you keep them close.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò doesn’t respond. He waits, face stony, before dropping his head into his palms.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s a brisk walk to Yusuf’s house. Nicolò wonders whether he should have taken Eleonora; but then he’d have had to saddle her and by then he would have lost his nerve to go at all. Even as he turns into Yusuf’s street he debates returning home—it is far too late, and surely by now the doctor will be asleep, and he really <em>should</em> return, but if he does so he is sure to face the wrath of his Family. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Celeste had informed him, in no uncertain terms, that if he were to return before pouring his heart out it would be to a bed on fire. His sister can be mean to those she loves most.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stands, for an age, with his hand poised for knocking. He pulls it back, feeling foolish. Then he knocks anyway.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf is still half dressed, a poor parallel to when Nicolò first saw him in his home. His face goes from worried, to hopeful, back to something more guarded.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh. I had thought you might be Dr. Copley, calling for professional help.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not quite.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf says nothing, crossing his arms—it looks to be more for his own sake than a gesture of defensiveness. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I…” Nicolò says. “…should have thought of something to say on the way here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò’s heart soars to see the upwards quirk of Yusuf’s mouth, although he hides it quickly. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I just wanted to come and… apologise, primarily. For being so obtuse—for not telling you how I felt and letting you decide for yourself how to respond in turn. I have this terrible habit of not thinking beyond the boundaries of my own self and I have let it ruin many things; I would not let it ruin this, too.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò takes a deep breath, knowing this is what he came for. “I want to call you Yusuf. I want to touch you even when I am not hungry, I want to kiss you—all the time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Without the blood in your mouth?” Yusuf’s voice is soft and Nicolò can see the moon reflected in his warm eyes. He feels breathless.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes. Yes, without the blood.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf sighs, stares at the ground. Nicolò realises he must be cold and reaches out to touch his arm.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come inside,” Yusuf says, avoiding his touch. “You’re saying such scandalous things that I would not have my neighbours overhear.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feeling lost, Nicolò follows Yusuf further into the house. The fire is dying slowly, and Yusuf goes over to poke it back to life.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ve kept away a long time,” he says into the fire. “I had thought…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know.” Nicolò stands there, in the middle of Yusuf’s sitting room, knowing that if he had thought to bring a hat it would be twisted between his hands. “I am… slow, sometimes.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Comes with the territory, I suppose.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò frowns. “How do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sure as the years go by, you notice the days less and less.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh. No—no, I did not mean it like that,” he takes a step forward, pulls his hand back where he was reaching for Yusuf’s shoulder. “I just meant that I am stubborn. I felt… unfairly, I felt as if you wanted me to apologise for misunderstanding, and dug my heels in to avoid from having to do so.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf laughs, bitter and short. “That is… an unbelievably stupid way to live your life.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quite so.” Nicolò waits for Yusuf to turn around. “Yusuf… please look at me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf’s head drops into his hands and his shoulders shake silently. Nicolò clenches his jaw.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought-” Yusuf bites himself off, voice thick. “I only thought myself so silly, falling for a vampire.  I must not even register for you, young and naive as I am. And then you left me to myself for days—and I thought maybe that was better, less humiliating to think of you trying to forget me entirely.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò swallows heavily. “Yusuf-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And I don’t know whether I can forgive you for that.” It is a hoarsely whispered confession, spoken through the tips of Yusuf’s fingers pressed tightly against his lips—as if that might make the words soften or change.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò barely keeps himself from staggering under the weight of those words. Yusuf’s crouched form is lit only by the embers of the fire, warm across his skin, and Nicolò—feeling selfish even as he says it, can think of nothing else to say but, “Please… for me. Be brave.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf turns his face even further into his own shoulder. Then, blessedly and to Nicolò’s great relief, he throws the other arm out, reaching for him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò goes easily, practically falling to his knees in his haste to get to Yusuf. He wraps both arms around him, broad palm coming to rest in Yusuf’s curls.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s still weeping openly but he leans into Nicolò, squeezing his arms around him. His face comes to rest where Nicolò’s shoulder meets his neck.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into Yusuf’s curls. “I am <em>so</em> sorry. You are not naive—you are the most wonderful person I have ever known. If you let me I would spend the rest of eternity making sure you know it, but if you tell me to leave I will do so, too.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, don’t you dare,” Yusuf says, arms coming ever tighter around Nicolò. “Don’t you dare leave me now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò laughs, can’t help himself from laughing. He feels lighter than he has in a very long time.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Most of these tears are from relief, anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò shakes his head. “You have every right to be cross with me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know, you unbelievable idiot. Let me lie to myself about this, if only for a little bit.” Yusuf inhales shakily. He lifts his head from Nicolò’s shoulder, wiping his eyes. Nicolò is hit with a realisation.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I haven’t even said it yet,” he says, horrified. Yusuf laughs at him, shaking his head. “I love you. I adore you, Yusuf al-Kaysani, so much. Sometimes when sleep cannot find me I merely sit and think of how much I love you—about how little I can do to stop it. It consumes me completely, <em>you</em> consume me completely.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You believe me?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf nods, palm coming to rest against Nicolò’s cheek. It’s wet with Yusuf’s tears, but Nicolò has never felt anything as soft in his entire life. “I believe you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò does not wait for Yusuf to kiss him this time, pressing their lips together sweetly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When it’s over, Yusuf pulls back to rest his forehead against Nicolò’s own.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There are many things still to discuss,” Yusuf tells him. “But for now it is late, and I am very tired.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicolò nods, releasing his hold on Yusuf very slowly—unwilling to let go.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will let you sleep-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good, because you hog the blankets.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I most certainly do not- oh.” He pulls back to look at Yusuf’s face. “You would like me to stay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Yusuf says in a rush of breath. “And I do not want to have to convince you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll stay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yusuf smiles. It’s the first one all evening that has even half of its usual luminance—Nicolò feels as if he is witnessing the sunrise. Yusuf holds out his hand—Nicolò, because there is nowhere he would rather be, lets him lead them both into Yusuf’s bedroom.</span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p>
<p class="p3"><em>On the study of vampires</em><br/>
 <span class="s1"> <em>By Dr. Yusuf al-Kaysani<br/>
</em> </span> <em>Published 18—</em></p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>There are many people who need to be thanked in the making of this book; to the vampire with terrible taste in sports teams whose nose I broke and then set, thank you for the inspiration behind this manuscript. I thank my research subjects, and apologise to them for trying out all sorts of tests in the name of science—I was messing with you at least half the time. </em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I thank Dr. James Copley, without whom the clinic would be in shambles for my distraction during the writing of this manuscript. I thank Miss Nile Freeman for letting me teach her how to bandage wounds, and I thank her for bandaging those wounds when I was too busy with other matters (such as the previously mentioned ‘messing with people’).</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>This book is dedicated to all the nameless vampires whose knowledge has informed mortal medicine, and to N. without whom this would have been finished a lot faster—without whom it would have never been finished at all.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>My dear N. </em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I’m being brave.</em> </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>title from grand old paris by the pigpen theatre company </p>
<p>find me on tumblr @marwankenzarisgaylittleearring &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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